


You Machine

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Other, Pining, Queer Themes, Queerplatonic Relationships, Sensitive!Sherlock, notamachine!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-24
Updated: 2013-06-29
Packaged: 2017-12-09 10:07:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/772985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sherlock Holmes actually has feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. a study in pink

**Author's Note:**

> so it's kind of my headcanon that sherlock is actually really, really insecure and sensitive, and his whole schtick with being cold and heartless is really just his own personal survival technique. so this fic will consist of me taking real scenes from the show and giving what i think is really going on inside sherlock's head. enjoy!

Sherlock picked up his violin. He needed to think.

_Now this was all very interesting._

This man, this John Watson, considered what Sherlock did to be amazing, incredible, fantastic... and he was obviously sincere, as he'd been repeating this praise over and over since Sherlock first told him how he deduced Afghanistan Or Iraq.

A military man, a doctor, who had undoubtedly seen so many awful things and borne so much more suffering than a single human ever should, was well and truly _impressed_ by what Sherlock had to say.

It was... interesting.

Kind of comforting, in a way. No, not comforting, that wasn't the word. At least, Sherlock did not permit himself to use it, because the Great Sherlock Holmes didn't need comfort; not from his brother, not from his colleagues, and least of all from a man he'd met not one week ago.

_But I do need comfort_ , he couldn't quite stop himself from thinking. And it was true. Yes, he needed puzzles, he needed intellectual endeavors, that was all obvious; but he also needed validation. He needed someone to recognize the fact that he was intelligent, and phenomenally so, at that. 

Sherlock knew that he was exceptionally smart; he'd always known that, that was _obvious_. And he didn't attempt to restrain or hide it. Sure, it alienated him from others some, but he was always able to convince himself that it didn't really matter because they were all idiots anyway.

Still, some part of him needed those very same idiots to tell Sherlock that he _wasn't_ one.

And Dr. Watson was doing just that.

Granted, John Watson was no idiot; an average mind, to be sure, but even a perfectly average doctor is at least slightly more intelligent than, say, a perfectly average waiter. 

He was a kind man, but he didn't strike Sherlock as the overly-diplomatic type that would falsely compliment just to appear agreeable. He was both kind and honest, in equal measures.

And so it was interesting that such a man would so blithely throw commendation Sherlock's way, when the two had only just met, and as ever Sherlock had been his curt self. Very interesting indeed, and flattering, dare he admit. It _pleased_ Sherlock ( _far too much_ , he decided) that John Watson was impressed by him. _Him._

In fact, the world's only consulting detective found that not only was he inordinately happy that John Watson approved of him, but he found himself, over the course of the past few days, going out of his way to impress the man. 

_What have I got myself into_ , he wondered as he dragged the bow over the strings of his violin. 

"Sherlock! It is 4 am!" he heard John shout from his bedroom. He smiled to himself and crescendoed purposefully, delighted by John's responding groan and only subconsciously aware that he found the good doctor's protests extremely endearing.


	2. the fall, before and after

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> out of order ahhahaahahaHAHAHaaahAHHAaH

i. before

➣➣➣

Seldom was Sherlock Holmes truly frightened by other people.

He did, of course, feel that occasional instinctive threat from, say, a criminal pointing a gun at him (or at John), but people didn't typically scare him. When he felt intimidated in a confrontation with a murderer, the danger came from the weapon and what the weapon could do. The murderers weren't menacing in their own right; they were only menacing when they were holding the weapon.

Which is why Sherlock was so surprised, and frightened, and ashamed at the fact that Jim Moriarty, Consulting Criminal, _scared_ him.

Having tea in the flat, no weapons were drawn or even implied. There was no immediate threat of physical violence. It was just two men -- _one man and a spider_ \-- having tea, having a chat, talking in calm indoor voices and, soon enough, Jim Moriarty was gone. So why was Sherlock so... _afraid?_

He knew the answer, of course. Jim was gone from the flat; Moriarty wasn't.

IOU.

➣➣➣

"You look sad, when you think he can't see you."

Sherlock had to give Molly credit; she was far less average than he'd initially assumed. Far too intuitive, as it were, and far, _far_ too inquisitive of late.

And then she told him she didn't count, and a tiny crack formed in Sherlock's heart.

He knew that he sometimes treated Molly rather poorly, although most of the time the things that he said which were considered to be rude he didn't find rude at all. And he knew that he kept Molly, who was clearly infatuated with him, at arm's length, and that he occasionally said horrible things -- _...always..._ \-- to her. 

But how could she think that he didn't care for her, that she didn't _count_? She _did_ count. She'd _always_ counted.

He needed to tell her that.

➣➣➣

Mycroft said that they didn't need to involve Molly, that she would only become complicit, and that would just mean one more liability for them and one more target for Moriarty. Sherlock knew that they couldn't do it without her, because she _counted_ , of _course_ she counted, she'd _always_ counted. He did it anyway.

➣➣➣

"Sherlock Holmes, I'm arresting you on suspicion of abduction and kidnapping." _Clean, sharp delivery with little emotion, well-enunciated like a barked order, formal to the point of curtness. It hurts him, if only a little. Perhaps not hurt, not quite, but it disappoints him. I disappoint him._

"It's alright, John," Sherlock tried to console his best friend. 

"No, it's not alright, this is _ridiculous!_ " John refused to be consoled. _Somewhat shocked, and definitely angry. Don't be angry with Lestrade, he's just doing his job, albeit a stupid one. Lestrade's just doing his job, it's nothing against you. Nothing against me._

_It's alright, John. It will be alright._

➣➣➣

➣➣➣

It was too much. Too many emotions, happening all at once to the perpetually unaffected man, to the high-functioning sociopath -- _wrong! wrong! wrong!_ \-- to the World's Only Consulting Detective.

He shut himself down precisely because of times like this: the emotional overload was damaging, and _distracting_ , and he had decided very early in life that he wouldn't have it, wouldn't have any of it, no emotions, no feelings, not for other people.

Sherlock had always known people were Not Good, all they did was hurt, hurt, hurt...

It was too much.

➣➣➣

➣➣➣

ii. after

➣➣➣

Mycroft told him that John hadn't been to the flat since Sherlock's performance at St. Bart's. Sherlock worried. Mycroft assured him that worrying was not an advantage. Sherlock did it anyway.

➣➣➣

Sherlock watched Mrs. Hudson hurry away from the gravestone, presumably to give John a moment alone. _And why not_ , Sherlock thought. John was his only friend, is his only friend. It made sense for John to have a moment alone, seeing as his _(flatmate? colleague? friend?)_ had just died. 

Sherlock couldn't hear his words and couldn't make them out, but still he watched, for reasons he didn't fully understand. _What am I waiting for_ , he wondered. He was still working that one out when three things happened: John walked away from his grave. John came back. And a moment later, John began to cry. 

Sherlock's heart (which indeed existed, he had always known) jumped for a moment, painful in his chest. He watched as John walked away for the second time, a nearly imperceptible limp plaguing his gait.

_I'm alive, John_ , Sherlock desperately wanted to choke out. _I'll come back soon, I promise._

➣➣➣

Sherlock wanted to send John some sort of message, anything to let him know that it would be alright. Mycroft told him no. Sherlock didn't.


	3. the blind banker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> without further ado:

Sherlock was _almost_ sorry about ruining John's date, and possibly ruining any chance he had at a real relationship with Sarah. But then he wasn't.

It wasn't just that it was an important case, although that was certainly true and it was the primary motivator for his actions. It _was_ an important case, he reminded himself over and over. And they did rather well, all things considered. And, most of the time, it was rather fun, just like John had said - _two people who liked each other, going out and having fun_. (Of course, it wasn't fun when he was in shock, nearly hyperventilating, fearing for John's life.)

That was one reason why he didn't feel bad. The other reasons, well, he didn't feel quite comfortable enough to admit to himself. 

It wasn't that he was _jealous_ , per se. Okay, maybe it was. _No._

Sherlock Holmes doesn't get _jealous_ , not like that. He might get jealous of Mycroft for being smarter and taller and better with people, and he might even get jealous of Lestrade sometimes for having such a simple mind, which had to be more restful than his torrential brain.

But, for lack of a better word, he may have been just a little bit... _peeved_ that John had spent the whole case trying to abandon Sherlock for Sarah. There was nothing special about Sarah; she was nice enough, attractive enough, smart enough... but she didn't have anything else. She was the personification of dull. Didn't John want _excitement_? Wasn't that the reason he shacked up with Sherlock in the first place?

Maybe Sherlock had gone a bit overboard by inviting himself onto their date. He just wanted to remind John of what was really important: the case, the danger, the excitement _(the friendship...)_

And that was the third reason. Sherlock was a natural holder of grudges, and he'd be lying if he said he hadn't wanted to punish John just a little bit for his eschewing the label of "friend" when Sebastian had inquired. 

"Friend?" Seb had said.  
"Colleague," John had replied.

He was hurt. Anyone could see that. And sure, anyone could also see that when Sebastian said _"friend"_ , what he really meant was _"shag partner"_ , and _that_ was an inaccuracy. But it was Sebastian. His watch didn't even display the proper date. Who cared if he held false beliefs about John and Sherlock's relationship?

And it wasn't as though this was an isolated incident. Why did John always have to be so damn quick to correct people? He'd said it himself on that first night at Angelo's: _it's all fine_. There's nothing wrong with homosexuality, with homosexual relationships. They weren't _in_ one, but did it really matter that much if other people thought they were? Why should he care what other people presumed about them if what they were presuming wasn't at all insulting?

So yes, Sherlock had been insulted, more than a little bit. And just a touch jealous. And it had been an important case, for God's sake.

So no, he didn't feel bad about ruining John's date. He didn't feel bad at all.


	4. a scandal in belgravia, in four parts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this has got to be my own personal record for timeliness. which is sad, i suppose. anyway, enjoy!

i. the woman

➣➣➣

Irene Adler was a beautiful woman. This was a fact that anyone, regardless of gender, level of experience, or sexual orientation, could discern. Her dark hair, pale skin, thin but curvy physique (with the exact measurements purported to belong to the "ideal woman"), and red-painted lips met nearly all standards of conventional attractiveness, of beauty.

Irene Adler was beautiful. But who cared?

Sherlock could almost see himself being attracted to Irene Adler, in some strange parallel universe. She was elegant, reasonably intelligent, marginally wittier and more cunning than the average human, and, as so few people did, she seemed to like him. He wasn't _entirely_ averse to women - they tended to be more unusual and idiosyncratic than men, but then, one could argue that such would jell just fine with Sherlock, an unusual and idiosyncratic man himself.

But he simply was not attracted to her, not in a romantic or sexual way. He couldn't deny that he was drawn to her in a purely mental sense. But why did it have to ensue that he would be physically attracted to her? Sherlock had all too often experienced, in his life, that people felt the need to constantly conflate those two very different types of enticement. It wasn't an outrageous concept to suggest that Sherlock Holmes could be in love with Irene Adler, it was just outrageous to believe that he _must_ be.

And outrageous to expect that the only possible outcome to the experience of attraction was that you had sexual intercourse with that person. Even if Sherlock was a little bit turned on by Irene (and he was, a little bit), why did he have to want sex from her? He was doing just fine on his own, and if he jumped every person who he found aesthetically pleasing, he wouldn't have time to be a consulting detective.

➣➣➣

ii. the friend

➣➣➣

_I wonder how John feels about Irene Adler. I wonder how John feels about how I feel about Irene Adler._

Firstly, it was interesting to watch John's reactions to Irene's blatant sexuality. (Her blatant sexuality was interesting to watch to begin with, but Sherlock always did like to watch John.) He was obviously confused, and turned on, and scared, and turned on, and confused, and scared, and turned on. Most of John's girlfriends were relatively average and modest, so it was quite a change-up for this woman to be stark naked for their first meeting. 

Secondly, Sherlock didn't want John to worry about his and Irene's relationship. He was still The Virgin that Mycroft and Moriarty had both ( _rather presumptuously,_ he thought) declared him ( _quite truthfully,_ he admitted) to be. He wasn't going to run off with the woman in a flurry of passion and spontaneity. He didn't love her, he didn't pine for her, and she didn't change him.

Sherlock also had to wonder what John thought about him, after recent revelations. There was no way that even John could have misinterpreted Mycroft's comment - _how would you know?_ \- so he wondered if Sherlock's virgin status surprised John at all. In one sense, Sherlock was usually one to experiment on the strangest of things, so John might have previously thought that Sherlock had not only had sex, but had _kinky_ sex. Alternatively, Sherlock was also supposed to be the High Functioning Sociopath, so John might be unsurprised that he'd not engaged in what was considered by many to be an act of intimacy and love.

He could even be impressed by Sherlock, as he was wont to be. That Sherlock transcended such things, rose above them.

John could be unaffected, or perhaps impressed. Or he could be disgusted. Disgusted that Sherlock, who was supposedly human, was such a machine that he would not even give in to such base desires as sexual attraction. It could disappoint John, in the same way that he had been disappointed when Sherlock refused to care for Moriarty's victims not that long ago.

Sherlock hoped not. He didn't like to disappoint John Watson. 

➣➣➣

iii. the brother

➣➣➣

He didn't like to disappoint Mycroft, either. And Mycroft was so obviously disappointed in him. Disappointed he'd fallen for Irene's tricks, disappointed he'd botched the counterterrorism operation, even disappointed that he'd taken that bloody cigarette in the morgue.

Although, Sherlock wasn't as loth to disappoint his big brother as he usually was, seeing that the older man had been nothing but cruel to him since he and John had been kidnapped to Buckingham Palace. A more crass and juvenile person than Sherlock might describe him as an "asshole", but Sherlock was by no means crass and only just a little bit juvenile. Sherlock had been singularly embarrassed, though he tried his best not to show it. (Of course he did. He always did.) He and John had been taken against their collective will to Buckingham Palace, and Sherlock hadn't even been wearing proper clothing for the first half of that experience. That wouldn't embarrass him in its own right, but Mycroft has just _had_ to step on Sherlock's sheet - an outright act of antagonism and meanness. _That was it,_ Sherlock decided. _I was angry and ashamed because Mycroft was just being_ mean. 

Sherlock would never admit to anyone - not even John - that he loved Mycroft, but he had to admit it to himself. Though it was times like this that he had to remind himself of this fact over and over in order to stop himself murdering his brother. The Iceman wasn't _all_ bad - at least, he wasn't bad _all_ the time. But he hurt Sherlock sometimes, and made him feel like there was something wrong with him, even more wrong than he always knew there was.

➣➣➣

iv. the fool

➣➣➣

_There is something wrong with me. It's why I'm a virgin. It's why Irene Adler and Jim Moriarty can prey on me, and it's why I let them. It's why I can hurt and impress and disgust John Watson in equal parts. It's why I disappoint my brother, and drive him to treat me cruelly. It's why I feel things. It's why I'm ashamed._


	5. the great game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was hard to write; for some reason i had a difficult time putting into words what i imagined sherlock was feeling at the time. please, if you could, feel free to comment and help me improve this, you know i need it.

Sometimes, Sherlock wondered if Jim Moriarty was like him.

It wasn't an entirely unfounded musing. There were obviously similarities between them: genius-level intellect, omnipresent boredom, dislike for 'ordinary' people. And so, Sherlock had to wonder sometimes if, like he himself, Moriarty was not a psychopath per se, but merely an expert at hiding his more base and unnecessary _(hurtful)_ emotions.

But Jim Moriarty was a difficult man to solve. Ordinary people were like Rubik's cubes; a few simple formulae and a basic knowledge of what you have to work with will allow you to solve them in seconds. _Dull, boring, predictable._ Moriarty, however, was more complex.

As he said himself, Moriarty was sooo changeable. Any attempt to characterize him was all for naught, because he would just go and prove you wrong. _Prove_ Sherlock _wrong._

Sherlock would believe - nay, _know_ \- that Moriarty had passion, drive. But then he showed himself to be so unbearably glacial, so utterly sober and detached and reptilian. Sherlock would _know_ that Moriarty had warm red blood like the rest of everybody, but then he showed himself to be cold-blooded and heartless.

Sherlock had a heart. He knew this, and John knew this, and Mycroft knew this, and apparently Moriarty knew this as well. After all, the man had promised to burn it out of him.

He knew what that meant. He had heard the _"Goood, veeery goood"_ when John grabbed Moriarty at the pool. Retrospectively, he had seen the way that Moriarty looked at John during their first meeting at the morgue. Sherlock knew that Jim Moriarty would target John Watson, and that he and his blogger had only so long together before the consulting criminal would go and ruin it all.

Of course he would ruin it all. Because he had no heart of his own. Because Moriarty, Sherlock decided, was not much like him at all.

And Sherlock was afraid. He didn't want John to get hurt, much less for it to be his fault. John was his friend, and you're not supposed to let your friends get hurt.

Sherlock decided that he would do anything - _anything_ \- to keep John from getting hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is something of a short one, sorry. as i said, i'm having a hard time iterating my exact thoughts about this episode. well, please comment with suggestions, if you would, as to how i can improve. ciao!


	6. the hounds of baskerville, fear and stimulus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry that this chapter kind of took a while. the delay was due, in equal parts, to a week's lack of internet connection and a general laziness and unwillingness to do anything because it's the end of the school year. anyway, here we have it.

i. fear

➣➣➣

He felt bad. He really did.

It wasn't even the sort of bad that one feels simply out of obligation to feel bad, like how he felt bad that the innkeepers' dog had to be shot. And it wasn't the sort of bad that one feels in a disconnected way, like feeling bad for starving children or people with disabilities. It really was a genuine, personal, deep sense of... _bad_.

It was an _experiment_. Nothing more, nothing less. _I should not feel bad about this_ , Sherlock kept telling himself. It was only an experiment.

And yet, Sherlock couldn't stop himself wondering if John, like he'd said on their first case, had been saying "Please, God, let me live" while he thought the Hound was stalking him. He had to wonder whether or not John had believed that he was about to die while he was in that lab. Sherlock didn't want that to be the case.

Objectively, of course, he knew that John had suffered only briefly and quite nobly - it was for a good cause, after all. Sherlock had just been trying to solve the case. That was what was important, right? The Work. The Work was Sherlock's Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. The Work governed action and reaction, it facilitated (or, more often, denied) all relationships, and it was judge, jury, and executioner when it came to critical decision-making.

_The Work_ had decided to experiment on John, not _Sherlock_. Never mind that the hallucinogen had not, in fact, been in the sugar of the coffee and consequently the variables manipulated Sherlock more than Sherlock manipulated the variables. Never mind that Sherlock had been about as in the dark as John was.

Never mind all of that. The fact of the matter was that Sherlock had merely been doing what he did best, which was experimenting, and therefore should not feel badly about any irrational emotions that John may have been feeling at the time of said experiment.

_Yes, I should_.

_No, I shouldn't_.

_Yes!_

_No!_

_Stop it, stop it now!_

Ultimately, Sherlock did feel remorse for what he had done, though he would never admit to it. He felt remorse because he, too, had been drugged and convinced that there was a Hound, and he, too, had been terrified for his life. He, like John, had doubted his own judgment, his own senses, all his own beliefs when he saw the "Hound" that first night on the moor. Sherlock knew, for the first time, what an awful feeling it was to simultaneously not believe your own eyes and to believe them perhaps too much. And _what_ a feeling - it was not one he wanted to repeat. No further emotional research would be conducted in that area.

_"Look at me, I'm afraid,"_ Sherlock had said that night with such disdain. Such utter contempt for his forced succumbing to base, distracting, illogical _feelings._

_Scared_ was not a feeling Sherlock liked at all. He imagined John felt much the same.

But Sherlock had still forced him to feel that way. Always at the other end of the experiment, John was. It was somewhat of a depressing trend: that Sherlock consistently put his best friend, his only friend - _I've just got one..._ \- in the cross-hairs. Not that it was always on purpose - when he and Sarah were kidnapped by the Black Lotus, the factors that contributed to their capture were completely unintentional. Or when Moriarty took him; that was unintentional, too.

But just because it was unintentional doesn't mean it never happened. It did happen, all of those things happened. Maybe it wasn't Sherlock's immediate doing, but if John had never moved into 221B Baker Street, he never would have had to get kidnapped by criminal masterminds.

And that was the most perplexing bit of it all. John _had_ moved into 221B Baker Street, after witnessing the drugs bust, after being thoroughly intimidated by Mycroft, and after shooting a man, whom he had never met before, dead; all within two days of meeting the World's Only Consulting Detective.

Sherlock knew that John wanted danger, that he got off on it, that he needed it to live a full life. But he had also looked into the doctor's eyes when they were in the lab at Baskerville, and he had not seen excitement, or fulfillment, or adrenaline. He had seen stark, cruel _fear_ , and he had seen that that was not the thing that John wanted or got off on or needed.

How could Sherlock separate the fear, which John so despised, from the adrenaline, which he so craved?

How could Sherlock give John danger without forcing him into fear?

➣➣➣

ii. stimulus

➣➣➣

Sherlock hadn't been lying when he'd described John as a conductor of light. In fact, he was beginning to find, more and more, that John Watson was exactly the type of stimulus he needed in his life.

He had his other sources, of course, though he hated to admit to them - Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade _(Greg? Really? I never knew.)_ , Molly, Mycroft, even Anderson and Donovan. _Cocaine, when I need it._ They all provided a certain small amount of stimulation, each in their own way. At the very least, they provided small brain exercises: deducing the state of Lestrade's marriage or Anderson and Donovan's ill-advised relationship or Mrs. Hudson's new beau.

But no amount of cocaine or nicotine patches or marital issues between Lestrade and his wife could equal the stimulation that John gave him. More than just brain exercises, John gave him... inspiration? No - John made Sherlock want to impress him, and to never disappoint him. 

John made Sherlock think clearly when no one else could. _His mind, so placid, straightforward, barely used. Mine’s like an engine racing out of control, a rocket tearing itself to pieces trapped on the launch pad._ That’s what he’d told him, and he hadn’t been lying then, either. 

And he did envy John, sometimes, envied his mind. Sometimes, he wished he wasn’t Sherlock Holmes, the World’s Only Consulting Detective, the psychopath/high-functioning sociopath, the freak. He wished he was someone more like John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, the army doctor. He wished the engine could slow down.

But, whether he liked it or not, he was Sherlock Holmes, and John Watson was John Watson. And for now, he was content to just _have_ John. He was glad that John was his only friend, and he didn’t see the need for another one. John was enough.

John inspired Sherlock - _too sentimental, delete that thought._ No, he didn’t inspire him. He made him... _better._

Better.

Sherlock was in the middle of making tea when that thought came to him. He froze in the middle of the kitchen to dwell awhile on that.

John made him _better._ He made him feel less bored and he made him not want cocaine. He made him think faster and clearer. He solved more cases with John, and faster, perhaps due in part to the fact that John had knowledge of things like social niceties and popular culture that helped Sherlock. 

He made Sherlock focus on the things that mattered, whether in regards to cases or the rest of life. Sherlock’s brain was constantly filled with white noise, absent deductions made about everyone and everything, a continuous flow of information blasted at him from all sides. For most of the first part of his life, this scared Sherlock. As a child, it was truly debilitating, and no one save for Mycroft could even come close to understanding. As he learned to deal with it and control it as much as he could, it something else: an annoyance at times, and a menace at others. The drugs helped, for a while. But they were never enough.

But John. John was enough. John made Sherlock feel better, think better. John made Sherlock better.

The teapot’s whistling had reached a critical point, and John appeared in the kitchen and yanked it off the stove, presumably incapable of handling the noise any longer. “No, don’t get up, I’ve got it,” John said. _Sarcasm,_ Sherlock detected. John handed him a cup of tea, took his own, and retreated to the sitting room. Sherlock stood still, alone in the kitchen, now holding the cup of tea John had gotten him.

The deduction was complete, and Sherlock had figured out the truth. John was enough; Sherlock was made better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you all liked it. one more after this. l8rz.


	7. the empty house

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whew! so this took a little while, partly because it’s kind of long (compared to the other chapters) and partly because i’m also working on like three other fics and also a novel right now. but! this is the last chapter! hope you like it! please proceed!

_They’re not planning on giving up anytime soon, you know. They’re still calling you a fraud and a liar. In the papers. Some people even commented on our blog but I deleted them. I know you said you ~~don’t~~ didn’t care. They’re all just stupid and wrong, right? That’s what you said, “That would just make them stupid and wrong.” I remember. But I  know you cared, maybe not about the strangers, but about me. Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson. Even Mycroft. Molly. ~~Maybe, if it’s not too much of a stretch, maybe even Anderson and Donovan.~~ You would care if **we** thought you were a fake, if **we** stopped believing in you._

_Anderson and Donovan stopped believing in you, if they ever believed in you in the first place. The public, the fans, they all stopped believing in you. The media. They turned like I said they would. ~~I’m not gonna say~~ I **told** you so. _

_I think Lestrade still believes in you though. I hope so. I haven’t seen him in a while. He came to the flat a couple of days after, said “so sorry, John, about what he did to you, the way he lied to you,” ~~and I threw him out, literally, grabbed him bodily and threw him backwards out of the door.~~ I ~~screamed at~~ told him that you **never** lied to me. He just looked at me with a very sad strange look on his face and said, “Okay.” ~~**Arsehole.**~~ I can’t tell if that’s supposed to mean ‘Okay, you’re right, he never did,’ or ‘Okay, I can tell I’ve hit a nerve so I’ll just ignore it.’ I hope the former. He wouldn’t give up on you that easily, would he? He didn’t when he helped you get clean. Would he give up on you now, when you really need us? _

_I told you that “friends protect people” that day in the lab. Well that’s what Lestrade and I and Mrs. Hudson and everyone else has got to do now. I couldn’t protect you on that rooftop and I’ll never forgive myself for that. But I have to protect you now, from the press and from Richard fucking Brook’s lies and I have to protect you, defend your honor. I won’t have people acting like you’re some freak or criminal or psychopath. And if they act like that then I have to set them straight. ~~I’ll burn this damned city to the ground before I let people think you’re a fraud. I don’t care.~~ Mike Stamford made a comment once about how much I love London. I think he was right once. But I’ll never love London that way again, I don’t think. Not like I did.  I’ll **never** stop believing in you._

_Please come home soon. Please. I’m tired of this. I’m tired of writing these letters and telling myself that one day you’ll write one back. _

_Will you ever tell me why you did it? Why did you do it? ~~Is~~ Was it **my** fault? I think it ~~is~~ was. Because I was cruel to you at Bart’s, was that it? Because, just for a few minutes, I stopped believing in you and said Mrs. Hudson getting shot was your fault and it wasn’t anyone’s fault, was it? because she never did get shot, and when I saw her at the flat I realized what had happened and I realized the wrong I had done you and I realized that the whole  fucking time when Moriarty was after you ⇁ all the times I had my doubts about you, it was all a trap, all engineered, and for what? Your suicide? Tell me, Sherlock. I can’t do this anymore. I **can’t** keep doing this. You can’t keep doing this to me Sherlock. _

_Please for the love of God, come back to me. ~~God ⇁ that sounded like a heartbroken teenager didn’t it? _“Sentiment,”_ you’d say. You never liked sentiment. I’m sorry.~~ Come home._

_~~I lov~~ ~~I care about y~~ ~~I want you to kn~~ Please._

_⇁ John_   


➣➣➣

It was the one-hundred-and-twentieth letter that had been left at Sherlock’s grave. John began to write them approximately two and a half weeks after his “suicide”, and wrote them sporadically; sometimes there were four in a week, sometimes there weren’t that many in a month. Many of them simply recounted what was going on in John’s life, the events of his (now dull) days, I bought a new book, Sherlock, I got a new girlfriend, Sherlock, I broke up with my girlfriend, Sherlock, the book is terrible, Sherlock. It fluctuated - sometimes, good things happened. Sometimes, John didn’t even mention The Fall (that was what Sherlock had begun to call it). Sometimes, bad things happened, and John - despite obvious attempts to keep his letters light-hearted - ended up asking the same questions over and over, telling Sherlock the same exact things, over, and over, and over. This particular letter was on the side of the negative. These more desperate sorts of letters always frightened Sherlock when Mycroft mailed them to him.

Sherlock ran his fingers over the paper, feelings the indents where John had scribbled things out, things he wanted to say but wouldn’t, or wanted to believe but couldn’t. The occasional slip - John lapsing into present tense, then remembering, scribbling, reminding himself _it’s not “is,” it’s “was,” it’s “did”_ \- made Sherlock want to catch the next plane to London and storm into the flat and grab John’s face and yell into it, “It’s not “was,” it’s not “did,” it’s “is,” John!”

And of course, at the bottom, the clumsy, pathetic attempts at letting Sherlock know how John feels. _Startling,_ he thought, _insulting, even, how John can’t even admit these things to me when he thinks I’m dead._ Can’t even admit these things to Sherlock’s grave, for fear of being brushed off with a mutter of “sentiment, a chemical defect found in the losing side.” 

He’d told Irene Adler that. He’d also said (in the presence of both the infatuated Miss Adler and the all-seeing Big Brother) that he imagines “John Watson thinks love’s a mystery to me,” and this letter certainly proved his supposition to be true. 

Countless times during his and John’s companionship Sherlock had found himself trying desperately to say something, but time and time again he was unable. He kicked himself for it mentally, tortured himself through sleepless nights, _why can’t you just say_ something _, you_ imbecile _?_ He would find himself opening his mouth and closing it again, trying to silently communicate something to John which he knew had to be spoken aloud eventually. John wasn’t the consulting detective here; it wasn’t his job to find things out. He was ordinary. He had to be told such things.

 _Such things. What things, exactly?_ , Sherlock asked himself. And the truth was, he didn’t quite know. Part of the reason he never seemed able to tell John “such things” was that he simply didn’t possess the linguistic capabilities necessary to do so. 

“I want you to be happy” was something he had considered saying; and while it was most certainly true, it fell too short; Sherlock wanted something that would succinctly sum up his feelings for the army doctor, something that would cover all the bases without betraying his secret: that he, Sherlock Holmes, experienced emotions sometimes.

“I care for you” was another option. It seemed better than the first option, given that it was more all-encompassing; but Sherlock had explicitly said to John once that he would “continue not to make that mistake.” John could take it wrong, could think that Sherlock was just trying too hard to appear human; or worse, could think he was mocking him, being sarcastic as Sherlock so often was. There could be no margin for error, no misconstruing of intent, because Sherlock was probably only going to be able to say it, whatever it is, once.

“I love you.” _No, no, that won’t do at all._ It was too... foreign, too alien for Sherlock. He hadn’t uttered those words in far too long, not since he was a child. He had _heard_ them from Mycroft, once in their mutual adulthood, after a bad overdose, laying in a hospital bed. Mycroft had said the words, but Sherlock had never returned them to date. The worst part was, Mycroft understood completely.

“I’m so sorry, Sherlock. I love you,” he’d said. Seeing the look of fear in his brother’s eyes, he’d continued: “It’s alright, I know you’re not good with sentiment. You don’t have to say anything. I simply needed you to know.” Sherlock hated him for it. Sherlock had just done the stupidest thing, the _dullest_ and most disappointingly _human_ stunt of his entire life, and here Mycroft was, apologizing and holding his bloody hand and tearing up and telling him he loved him. It was nauseating, and it was nauseating how touched Sherlock was by it.

Mycroft understood because Mycroft understood everything. But would John understand?

Or rather, _does_ John understand? Judging by his letter, the answer is no. John still thinks, after all this time, that Sherlock is heartless, thinks he scoffs at sentiment and doesn’t care for anyone. Doesn’t care for _John._

Sherlock can’t tell him that he loves him. There are thousands of possibilities for him to take it the wrong way, for him to not understand what Sherlock means. Hell, _Sherlock_ isn’t sure what he means. There are thousands of different kinds of love, and Sherlock isn’t sure that the one he may or may not feel for John Watson has been defined yet.

It’s aesthetic, in some ways. He likes the way John looks, likes John’s facial expressions and his jumpers and the way he looks when he’s running across London and when he’s catching his breath against the wall of 221B. It’s also sensual, to a certain extent - he likes to touch John, to touch his hands and his face and his shoulders and to stand and walk and sit too close to him. Would like to be able to do that _more,_ wishes it were more agreeable to all parties for him to be physically close to John. Had never quite felt that way for anyone else. Had never wanted to touch or be physically near another person the way he does John.

Sherlock can’t quite determine if his _feelings_ for John are sexual. He doesn’t feel real sexual attraction often enough to really have a handle on what it feels like, what its effects are, beyond the obvious biological and chemical understanding of it. 

But whether it’s sexual or not, it’s definitely aesthetic, and actually rather sensual, and quite obviously emotional - Sherlock had never felt more attached to another person before. And attached he was - before his "death," Sherlock had oft found himself thinking about what he and John would do when they grew older, absently, as though it was common knowledge, common _sense_ that he and John would be together forever, in whatever way worked, that they would live together and die together and spend every moment in-between _together._

There had never been anyone besides his brother whom he had even considered telling that he loved them. And he wasn’t upset by that fact. He didn’t regret that he didn’t go passing out I Love You’s like Christmas cards. (He didn’t give out Christmas cards either, but that was beside the point.) In fact, he was glad that he didn’t, because it made the fact that he was considering saying it to John that much more potent. 

And also that much scarier. But Sherlock Holmes doesn’t get scared, and he will never, ever tell anyone otherwise.

(Except maybe John.)  


➣➣➣

_I don’t know how much more of this I can take. I’ve asked you to come back. Begged you, really. You **still** haven’t come back. ~~I don’t know why I even bother asking.~~ I don’t know why I keep writing these stupid letters. I think they made me feel better once ⇁ but now they just make me feel ~~stupid~~ worse. _

_~~I care abo~~ ~~I love yo~~ ~~Please tell me you~~ ~~l HATE YO~~ ~~Please~~ ~~WHY THE HELL ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME SHERLOCK?! I’M FUCKING BEGGING YOU TO COME BA~~ _

_I don’t even know what I would even do if you did come back, somehow. ~~I know it’s impossible. Humour me. I can dream. I can entertain the **fucking** idea. There’s no harm in that.~~ I’d probably kill you again. ~~Kill you myself this time. Push you off that fucking building so you’ll never jump again.~~_

_I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I think I’m just tired of this. Tired of living without you. Before you waltzed into my life I was fine. ~~Maybe not fine, but I was surviving.~~ Then you came along and messed everything up and left just as suddenly. Why did you have to ~~make me fall in lo~~ do that? I guess I’ll never know. ~~Thank you. I mean it. They were short and they ended badly but they were the best years of my life. **I hate you.**~~ I think I need to go away from London or something ⇁ problem is, I’m not sure where to go. Maybe I should go find you. I followed you to crime scenes and to chase after murderers. I followed you to  certain death ⇁ seems only logical I should follow you now._

_~~ I think I’m just tired of pretending, at this point. ~~ _

_I can’t do this anymore Sherlock, ~~I can’t live without you.~~ I  won’t live without you._

_⇁ JW_   


➣➣➣

The paper was more black than white with all the underlining and scribbling out John had done. The doctor’s chicken scratch was even the worse for stress, for desperation, for some strange sort of depressed resignation. 

Mycroft had assured Sherlock, upon the delivery of this particular letter, that his people had eyes on John at all times, but Sherlock insisted that it wasn’t enough. That he had to come back to London, _right now._

Sherlock never did like to see his only friend upset. It always hurt to read his letters when he was experiencing even more despondency than usual. But this was different. Previously, John had always been able to control himself, to a reasonable extent. He would make no secret of his melancholy, but he had never been so _raw,_ so unrestrained in his exasperation as he was in this message. 

No. Something was wrong, something was very wrong. John had never been like this before, not even in his darker moments. 

Sherlock couldn’t just sit around on his arse, he had to do _something._ Or else John would do something, something very stupid, and John was an idiot. What, or who, other than Sherlock, would be there to stop him from doing an idiotic thing?

He _had_ to go to London. There was really no choice, no matter what Mycroft said. 

He didn’t have a choice.  


➣➣➣

Eventually, Mycroft Holmes, worn thin by his incorrigible younger brother, sent someone to collect Sherlock and bring him to London. Sherlock complained and shouted the entire trip, yelling at the driver that he hadn’t come quickly enough, that if he didn’t _drive faster, for God’s sake, you complete moron,_ they would be too late. He searched for the rudest possible things to deduce about the driver and promptly delivered the deductions with excessive antipathy and indecent volume.

Sherlock spent half the time antagonizing the driver, who demonstrated admirable restraint, and the other half the time on the phone with his brother. He demanded to know _exactly_ where John was, what he was doing, and who he was with, at all times. 

While Sherlock was still in the car, John was doing a shift at the surgery. Mycroft’s men spied on him the entire time, only to find him surprisingly amiable: he chatted with patients and laughed with Sarah Sawyer - Sherlock ground his teeth at that, by which point he was on a plane set for London, readying for takeoff. John took a lunch break, came back and worked until the end of his shift. 

But as Sherlock’s long flight wore on, John had to go home, back to 221B Baker Street. Mycroft, who was now personally surveilling the doctor, reported to Sherlock that he had become markedly more disconsolate. The British Government had planted bugs in the flat immediately following Sherlock’s “suicide” and John had thankfully never found them, so Mycroft was able to observe the man’s every move within the flat, to watch the mask fall the moment he stepped inside, slipping from the charming, gentlemanly doctor persona to a forlorn, plaintive mourner, a man who believed that his best friend’s life may or may not have been an elaborate lie and that it had come to an end three years previous, violently, shamefully, and in front of his very eyes.  


➣➣➣

“You have to go up,” Sherlock asserted. His flight was nearly over - just ten minutes till landing - but it would still then take time to get from the airport to Baker Street, and Mycroft was reporting increasingly upsetting behavior going on inside 221B.

“I’m beginning to believe you’re right, Sherlock.” Mycroft’s ensuing sigh did nothing for comfort.

“There’s something I thought I’d never-”

“This is hardly the time, brother,” Mycroft cut him off sharply.

There was a long silence before Sherlock spoke again. “You’ll keep him safe until I get there?”

“Of course.” Another pause, followed by the slam of a car door, then: “I’m going up now.”

A pause from Sherlock. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” Sherlock hated it when people repeated themselves, but he figured he could make an exception for Mycroft. _Just this once, anyway._

Sherlock almost hung up at this point, but realized that the perfect moment had presented itself and this was long overdue: “I love you, Mycroft.”

He could hear the intake of breath, could practically _see_ Mycroft pause, just for a fraction of a second, on the stairs of the flat.

Sherlock disconnected the call and stuffed his mobile in his pocket before Mycroft could reciprocate, because then Mycroft would have said it twice to Sherlock, and Sherlock only once to Mycroft; and Sherlock already owed his brother enough.

_Mycroft will understand. Mycroft always understands._  


➣➣➣

It was odd to be back in London, Sherlock realized as the streets that the driver traverse became increasingly familiar. Of course Sherlock always considered it his home, but he hadn’t been there in so long, it almost felt like a whole different place, just another one of the cities he had to travel to in order to destroy Moriarty’s web.

But Moriarty’s web was gone, and this was, in fact, London, and he was, in fact, home. Going to see John, and Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, and Molly, Anderson, Donovan, and the thousands of other nameless faces that he didn’t know but they knew him, they knew (or thought they knew) that he was a fake, he was dead, he was gone. Sherlock wondered what sorts of looks he would get as he slowly returned to the streets of London, as he once again began running after criminals in the dead of night and eating at Angelo’s during the day. 

Sherlock hadn’t given extensive thought, in the past three years, to how other people (people besides John) were going to react to his death. He hadn’t considered the fact that Lestrade might not let him on cases anymore, that Donovan and Anderson might come up with things a whole lot worse than “freak” or that it was possible that no one would forgive him. That nothing would be the same. He didn’t like to think about the fact that maybe he wouldn’t be able to just walk right back into everyone’s lives.

He had obsessed over the thousand possible ways that John might react, had explored and interrogated every potentiality; every night, he fed his fears by conjuring scenarios in which John hated him, or never forgave him, or worse, moved on from him; he entertained his desires by conceiving of situations in which John (or Sherlock; he had imagined both) dramatically professed his forgiveness (or, in Sherlock’s case, his remorse), his affection, his love for the other.

Somehow, he found more and more that he wasn’t able to deduce how the people closest to him would react. He knew that those thousands of London strangers would express, in equal numbers, their disgust at the consulting detective’s return or their belief that they _always knew that guy was for real,_ or something along those lines. But Lestrade, Donovan, most importantly, John - he couldn’t say how they would feel. Would they be pleased that he had come back? Would they fall at his feet, tears in their eyes, say they had always hoped - nay, always _known_ \- he would return? Would he come to find that they had never stopped believing in him, never stopped loving him?

Or would they hate him? Would there be violent encounters - would they call him names, names worse than “freak” or “psychopath” and tell him he ought to leave London and never return?

Or worse - would _he_ fall at _their_ feet, tears in _his_ eyes, only to find that they had put him out of their minds, moved on, forgotten? Would there be an awkward moment of incomprehension, and then: “Oh, yeah, that bloke. He’s alive? Wow. Got any crisps?”

Sherlock had borne plenty of hatred over the years. That kind of loathing that so often radiated from the people near him, that was a familiar feeling. But he had never gone unnoticed, and he didn’t know how he would - _could_ \- cope if his fame, his infamy, had dimmed.  


➣➣➣

He heard Mycroft and John talking inside and, though their voices were muffled and he couldn’t make out any actual words, John was clearly very upset, his voice cracking, crumbling, too high-pitched, and Mycroft was trying valiantly to soothe him, voice low, soft, and consistent, whispering a constant stream of comforting words to John, who occasionally interjected with distressed speeches of his own.

Struck with sudden and rare uncertainty, Sherlock stilled a moment at the door of 221B. Was he really ready to see John, after all this time? Rather, was John ready to see him?

Sherlock steeled himself, counted to ten, counted to ten in French, in German, in Mandarin.

It didn’t really matter, he decided, whether either of them were ready, whether _anyone_ at all was ready for the return of Sherlock Holmes. It didn’t matter if they were ready. It was _time._

Sherlock opened the door, stepped into his old home, not even bothering to make any deductions based on the state of the flat. He focused only on its occupants, first on Mycroft, who was sitting in John’s chair, probably on top of that old Union Jack pillow, and quickly afterward on John, who was sitting in Sherlock’s chair, head in his hands. 

Mycroft didn’t have to turn to know who was at the door, but John looked up at the sound and then froze.

Sherlock’s voice was soft and quiet the way it never was. “ _John._ ”  


➣➣➣

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and our story ends here. congrats, kids, we did it! *shakes your hand enthusiastically* i hope you had as much fun reading this as i had writing it. or maybe it caused you undue pain and suffering. either reaction will please me immensely.  <3___<3
> 
> this chapter is obviously not canon at all, and is also obviously a very incomplete depiction of their reunion, which is why i will leave it up to you people: should i write some sort of companion piece to this, an actual reunion scene, or should i just leave it here, all cliff-hanger-y and enigmatic? the decision is yours.
> 
> anyway! goodbye! hope to see you again sometime! perhaps very soon!
> 
> *blows you a farewell kiss*


End file.
